small bites, from an unusual plate

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I love Christmas. In a completely different way than ever before. Before Jeff, I mean. And before after Jeff, too. Especially, in the middle.

I wish I could have spent a believer’s Christmas with Sally and Nannee. It’s only being a believer that makes it ok now. Well, more than Ok. My Christmas’s now are Thankful.

Oh, it’s still about the presents, but with a difference. I enjoy being the Christmas ferret. I’m sure I’m not the one out there trying to find something that will mean something more than just a gift. I listen all year in a kleptomaniac sort of way, hiding away personal tidbits. I suppose you could say I hoard memories.

One of which came to mind while I was drafting this week’s entry. The only thing that broke on our move from the townhouse was a Christmas gift we had purchased for Sally. I discovered it while my mother was helping us unpack in our new home. I didn’t grow up with snow globes. I know it sounds silly, but I didn’t know they could easily break.

It was irreparably broken. Another thing I didn’t know about real snow globes – the bottoms don’t twist off and globes aren’t always replaceable. I immediately burst into tears, and Jeff immediately promised we’d get another. It wouldn’t be hers but it would still remind me of her.

We made the trek to Bronner’s in Frankenmuth. It wasn’t winter but it never even crossed either of our minds that we wouldn’t find one there. Or that the particular one we were looking for would be discontinued. Still, we were well into the days of internet, so Jeff consoled me with the backup promise of finding it on line. He scoured, I scoured.

We both came up empty; just like the place in my heart I was sure would never mend from losing this piece of Sally.

In fact, it still bothers me so much that I interrupted my story myself just now, opened a new tab, and searched. My heart did a funny flip-flop as the very first image to pop up was my missing treasure. He was perfect. Just as I remembered. Even came with the original box. I couldn’t wait to buy him, my mind already jumping ahead: I’ll put it in my cart and then I’ll go get my wallet. I clicked on the image and a whole lot of other items came up. I carefully scrolled through and reviewed all 2 pages, twice. My shoulders slumped. Of course, it wouldn’t be that easy.

But then again, it was. Just that easy to remember how much I thought it looked like her spirit. Easy to remember how her eyes lit up. Easy to remember her laugh. Just that easy to remember, it’s the memories that matter, not the matter of the memories.

I continued my deliberately slow crawl toward Ketogenics, and crashed into convincing.

Third Step: Entice myself with palatable recipes from the marvelous world of internet recipes and Instagram using the helpful, happy hashtag #keto. It was so easy I almost don’t remember pre-internet. Oh, I have a vague recollection of taking the train to the Boston Public Library because whatever I was looking for couldn’t be found in the high school library. Of course, I used the opportunity to visit record stores and Quincy Market, too. The web kind of negates those opportunities. I mean you find what you’re looking for and you’re still on your couch.

After much gleaning and self-reason, I reassigned this lifestyle to ‘maybe.’ If, I ease into it. Quite a few of the sites warned against the gentle-in approach, but the big leap just wasn’t fathomable.

Still, I decided to take the next logical step for me: Follow multiple easy steps agreed on by numerous sites, which actually means after dilly-dallying, I’d be back at the recommended start of my journey.

Easy Step 1: Choices were deplete cabinet full of food by wasting or deplete cabinet full of food by eating.

My choice? Re-home as much as possible, and then, do a little of both of the above.

It was a little hard to let go of my jar of Ms Renfro’s BBQ sauce, as it’s a rare one that does not contain pineapple. Bottled wing sauce was another struggle, but knowing I could create my own keto version helped.

Remnants of a near empty bag of Christmas cookie flour and a half-eaten jar of peanut-butter made the toss along with some surprisingly expired canned goods.

I checked out Amazon for Kindle for availabilities and costs. Post-perusal, I contemplatively pursed my lips and rerouted my research to the www.

The first pop-ups included ads and what seemed to be sensationalistic attention grabbers. There’s a real search engine war out there in internet space. The good-for-you camp is as well attended as the ridership on the bad-for-you bandwagon. Eventually, I refined my search to “ketogenic recipes,” and happily hit a deep vein.

These super friendly, language casual, photo enticing and aiming to-grow-readership sites simply and thoroughly listed exactly what could be eaten with very little variation. That’s because the almost verbatim lists of can-do are infinitesimally smaller than the don’t-do.

Despite the fact that these groups were a bit kinder, the echo of my first reaction returned loud and clear. “What? No. ” I moved on to the next logical level.

Second Step: Ignore a day or two or four, then revisit, and try to imagine physical behavioral compliance….

Despite studies and testimonials, I still dragged a dejected soul. From regular work lunchroom brown bagging to full-on celebrations, so much of life is about socializing with food. Going along for the fun and having an iced-tea would make me feel less left out. But, could I truly resist the ordering influenced by delicious aromas? Plus, not eating during these excursions would mean money could be reallocated from ‘dining out’ to ‘groceries.’

Yes, my budget is that specific. If you’ve been with me for a while, you know this. If you haven’t been with me for a while, well, now you know. I have yet to cover this topic in Knabble, although I have in previous forums. I think a side-track from this side-track may be in order, soon.

The first time Jeff used the turkey fryer, it was awesome. He followed directions, precisely. No matter he was outside in the snow behind the townhouse and not too far from a neighboring house. It was quick and juicy and we vowed we’d never succumb to long-cooking turkeys again.

The second time, there was a little clean-up disaster as Jeff tried to return the used oil to the plastic jug. Unfortunately, the roiled oil was still too hot, melted the jug and ruined his boots. We were both very glad he was wearing full coverage foot wear and not his usual winter sandals.

The third time involved 2 Jeffs and a plan to cook chicken wings out of the way of the freezing wind, in a garage. For some reason, it took an awfully long time to heat. So, they waited and waited and finally decided to check out the problem by lifting the lid. The result was a flume of combustion that blackened the garage ceiling and singed eyebrows. The temperature gauge had not been in contact with the oil, so it was plenty hot and smokin’. The result was a heavily burned, super hot pot that ended up coming to rest in a big pile of cul-de-sac snow.

The fourth time, breaking in a recently purchased new pot, the turkey didn’t cook all the way through in some spots. Could have been the pot needed to be seasoned first; could have been we bought the lower grade peanut oil at a discount store, rather than the good stuff at Cabela’s.

The fifth time, nearly a year later, we took it along with us to a family gathering. To fry the main course turkey, of course. Apparently, the new pot must have not enjoyed the infield at MIS and/or disliked living in the shed. Because, as oil went in, oil came out, creating another slick situation.

So, off we turkey trotted off to Meijer, returning with a new pot, more oil and an ugly pair of fish slippers Jeff planned on bring to his family’s Christmas exchange. I’m not quite sure which brotherly direction it went, but one of them had either chased Jeff or been chased by Jeff with an actual fish head.

After attempt #5 and negative incident #4, the fryer was unceremoniously and unsadly retired.

Even worse, in my opinion, was that Jeff had purchased what he nicknamed “The Fart Suite.” Themed merchandise included 2 Old Fart hats, 2 Old Fart aprons, 6 boxes of Old Fart beans in 3 versions with various heats, 4 boxes of Fart Corn microwavable popcorn.

Everything else was fantastic. It took us about an hour to empty the boxes and gaze in wonder at the beautiful mess we’d made in the middle of our living room. Pieces of clingy Styrofoam peanuts attached themselves to Miss Fred speckling her with white dots like a reverse Dalmatian. Sadie didn’t care about the statics, she was too busy going wild over and chasing the crumpled paper purposely tossed to remove her curious nose from the goods.

We’d purchased two of each product to deepen the presentation, plus three of some things because Jeff felt he couldn’t recommend what we hadn’t tried. After a brief debate we settled on a presentation package. It made sense to grocery aisle the salsas in one spot, sauces another, all of the popcorn, chips candy and snacks, etc. In the end, though, we’d decided to shelve alphabetically for easy brand location and easier inventory.

Re-unpacking our goods in the store made us both a little giddy, and soon we were laughing over the ridiculously hard question of which end of the store the A’s should begin. We both beamed happily as we broke down the and hauled out the last box. Actually, Jeff hauled out the trash. It was while he was gone, that I saw it.

Jeff had apparently felt the need to ignore the alphabet and place the fart suite directly inside the door where it would never be missed, by anyone. I stealthily moved it to a less obvious spot, obviously between E and G.

A few days later, I noticed it had just as stealthily reappeared in it’s eye-grabbing spot. Only now, it was further emphasized by the adjacent wall hanging ball caps and hook swinging aprons.

Wouldn’t you know, the very first item we sold out of was the dang Fart Corn. All 3 boxes went. Immediately.

Jeff couldn’t have been happier. At the other end of what I had envisioned as the classy, high-end the spectrum, I was pretty pleased, too. Sweet salsas and unusual savories were moving, too.

So much so, that two weeks after opening, we submitted another order to refill the outs, including the dang Fart Corn .

Once in motion, we spent every spare moment immersed. I’d come home from work and ask Jeff what he’d accomplished during the day and what we were going to work that night.

One evening he replied that he’d spent the day ‘getting sauced.’ The next day he’d said, “I got more sauced!” Each time a creative answer followed. “I’m having a saucy day!” “I got saucified!” “Saucing!”

We spent three weekends preparing, in grocery stores, on the web, on Food Network, and on the phone locating our opening stock.

In stores, because we didn’t want to duplicate easily found sauces, and it was likely we wouldn’t be able to match the big store low price.

On the web, looking for other hot sauce ventures: makers, sellers, stores, web sites. Yes, it’s true. We culled the names of the more popular brands and small start-ups.

On Food Network because BBQ challenges, and the many city specific food discovery shows featuring small business owners and local specialties.

There were a ton of tiny outfits. We learned that even if a popular brand was already stocked in mainstream or gourmet specialty stores, often the hotter-hottest of the line was not.

Jeff made friends. And, I’m talking more than acquaintances. Even over the phone, he had the gift of friendliness.

Within a few days free samples began rolling in. Some came from new makers/suppliers Jeff discovered. Two of the larger branded names couldn’t accommodate our small 2-4 or at most 6 bottle orders, but they were willing to provide the name of businesses who would.

Jeff spoke to both sources and within a day, after Jeff and I had agreed and disagreed on some items, our first order was placed.

The disagreement was about anything with the name or word ‘fart’ or ‘ass’ included. I know it’s more of a man thing than a Jeff thing, but no matter what, I just didn’t find it funny. I never understood the guffawing over the fart scene in Blazing Saddles, either. Especially after seeing it for the umpteenth time. I will admit the only time I’ve ever found a fart funny was when Peter Sellers was involved.

My vision was more gourmet, experimental, unique. Jeff didn’t think anyone would ever be interested in olive salsa or crab salsa, but his approach was, “Why not? Let’s see what happens.”

On a Wednesday, two big boxes of serious shipment had arrived. I only remember it was a Wednesday because we were debating the merits of waiting until we could get the shipments to the store or opening them now and just being excited.

With enthusiasm we tore open the loot. The first thing Jeff pulled out delighted him and annoyed me…